


Eyes like Mirrors

by Demonfeathers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: As if death could separate them, Fall of Reichenback AU, Gen, Ghosts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:24:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demonfeathers/pseuds/Demonfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood on the pavement, blood on the walls, twin bared grins and this is how it was meant to be, no mortality to soften the edges now, just each other with sparking minds and burning hearts, and eyes flashing and flaring like shattered glass in the shadows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Weaving Circles

John stares into the mirror over the mantle. The reflection of the room behind him, around him, is somehow easier to bear than looking directly at it all, easier than accepting that he is here and Sherlock-  
Sherlock is not.  
John shuts his eyes, unable to look anymore, unable to see the perpetual chaos of their (his now, just his) flat, all the little things that scream of him. The stacks of papers and files piled around the desk, the knife pinned into the mantle, the half-filled tea cups on the coffee table, the skull. This place is saturated with Sherlock’s presence and John is lost with the echoes of it.  
It has been weeks since the funeral (23 days, 23 days and 9 hours, an eternity in every second), weeks since Mycroft stood there holding a medical file with trembling fingers and confirmed that yes, Sherlock was really gone, no trick, no guise, that was really Sherlock lying there with blood matted curls on that slab (except it wasn't, was it, because Sherlock was gone, gone, gone). Weeks since John’s best friend, John’s partner, John’s heart, had held out a hand from the roof of St. Bart’s and leapt into the void without him. Weeks since everything that had made life worth living had told him it was all a lie and shattered on the pavement.  
He opens his eyes again, meeting his own gaze in the mirror. A lie. It was all supposedly a lie, an elaborate game of smoke and mirrors. A hoax. Blue eyes rimmed with red stare at him from over the mantle. Moriarty (and even if Richard Brook was real, John would never consider him anything but Moriarty, enemy, spider, destroyer of worlds) had claimed he would burn the heart out of Sherlock. Tricky bastard that he was, he’d gone and done the reverse. Perhaps John should have been expecting this (except how do you anticipate this?), should have seen there was something more sinister going on and done something about it (should have stopped him, should have stayed with him, should never have left).  
Blue-grey eyes flash reprovingly at him from the mirror. Despite himself, John feels his lips quirking into the phantom of a smile. So this is how it would be, then? Sanity slipping away like blood between the cracks in the pavement. This he really should have seen coming.  
You can’t deny that one.  
The reflected fluttering of a familiar blue scarf disappearing around the corner is his reply.  
John sighs and glances from the mirror to the mantle. His gun sits beside the skewered pile of old mail, metal gleaming with the orange light of the street lamps outside the window. It was loaded, John knew it was (checked compulsively every time he caught sight of it), but he goes through the familiar motions again, his mind calming at the repetition of well-known routine, the cool smooth slide of this deadly instrument being taken apart and put back together by his steady hands (it was the only time his hands were steady, these days). Slowly, thoughtfully, John raises the gun to his head.  
He meets his eyes in the mirror again. Blue, and dull, and so, so lost. His gaze flicks to the side, behind him.  
Sherlock frowns.  
What else would you have me do?  
Sherlock’s reflection blinks slowly, eyes gleaming white-blue for a moment, and reaches out a hand.  
John smiles, and pulls the trigger.

 

The first thing John becomes aware of is the pulse. The world is beating, pounding, spinning, pulling, and in those first moments John is helpless to resist it. He drifts, pushed and pulled by the strength of this soundless deafening force, this dead living thing, and is powerless to do anything but let it take him where it will.  
The second thing John becomes aware of is Sherlock, worried gaze flashing white-blue-grey-blue, blood flickering in and out of view on his face.  
As always when it involves Sherlock, John latches onto him to the excursion of all else.  
Sherlock fades out, and the pulse thunders through John for a moment- for a heart-stopping, blood-freezing, panic stricken moment- and John reaches, claws desperately at the disappearing edges of Sherlock’s coat, not able to bare losing what he has come here for, what he has given up everything for (if there had been anything left to give). And Sherlock… comes back. The pulse fades, and Sherlock wavers back into view, relief clear on his face. John clings to him, conscious only of keeping him here, keeping them together, not letting Sherlock slip away from him again as it has become clear is so easy for him to do (no no no he’s here now don’t think of that he’s here he’s here).  
John slowly becomes aware that Sherlock is clinging to him just as tightly, that Sherlock is just as desperate not to lose his grip on John as John is not to lose Sherlock.  
Together, they drift.  
Gradually, some immeasurable time later, John pulls back enough to be able to actually see Sherlock, the only solid thing in this faded landscape of half-formed vagueness. Sherlock lets him, readjusting his grip to hold John vice-like at his upper arms while they stare into each other’s faces, relearning each other, reaffirming that they’re really here. Sherlock has a strange look on his face, eyes wide and disbelieving, like John has done something unexpected, something he can’t quite comprehend. John can’t help himself. He grins, laughter bubbling up in his throat as he tries desperately not to giggle like a schoolgirl, relief washing through him and leaving him limp as the panic that has fueled him this far drains away.  
Sherlock blinks, baffled, for a moment, before his face splits into a grin to match John’s and just like that they’re laughing together, like that first time during the case of the lady in pink, leaning on each other, clinging to each other, while the echoes of their laughter spark and meld, swirling the mists around their feet.  
Eventually, they’ll calm themselves and work out where to go from here. But quite frankly, John currently couldn't care less about anything but this. So he laughs harder, and holds onto Sherlock harder, and dares the world to try to pull them apart now.


	2. Blood and Brothers

Mycroft Holmes stands in the living room of 221B Baker Street, and regrets. His little brother is dead, and the only one that had ever truly called Sherlock a friend has followed him from this world. He had come over to check on John, knowing the man was not adjusting well to Sherlock’s death, when he found the body. Mrs. Hudson had let him in and shown him upstairs. Mycroft had been the first through the door, and had seen the blood splatters before anything else, so he was able to turn around and prevent Mrs. Hudson from seeing anything. The fact that John had taken his life in such a way, where Mrs. Hudson was most likely to be the one to find the body, told Mycroft more than anything else how far gone he had been. John was (had been, had been) a considerate sort, very accommodating for those he cared about. He had proven that enough times over the years. If John had been in anything approaching his right mind, Mycroft knew he would never have been so callous as to leave such a scene for their landlady to find, not after both John and Sherlock had been so fierce in their defense of her in the past. As it was, this at least was something that Mycroft could help with. He had been unable to save his brother after his… misstep, regarding Moriarty, and he had been unable to prevent John from following Sherlock this final time. It was small, and perhaps useless, but at least cleaning up after John was something he could do.  
Well. Something he could call in others to do something about, anyway. Lestrade stands in front of him beside John’s body, shaking his head sadly at his fallen friend. Mrs. Hudson is downstairs, presumably being coaxed into drinking a cup of tea with some of her herbal soothers by some well-meaning officer. Mycroft himself stands back, glancing around the flat. The place is still much the same as it had been when Sherlock was alive. Mycroft had not gotten around to (read: not yet been able to bring himself to) collecting Sherlock’s possessions from the flat. Perhaps it had been cruel, leaving Dr. Watson surrounded by such reminders at all times, but Mycroft had assumed that he would move out if he proved unable to deal with living in such surroundings in the wake of Sherlock’s death. No, his suicide was not something that could have been prevented by moving a few stacks of files and an old skull out of sight. If John was determined not to carry on without Sherlock, as Mycroft suspected he had been, there would have been no stopping him.  
Mycroft sighs, shifting his grip on his umbrella as he prepares to leave. He is doing no good here. He might as well let the DI do his job and come back to collect Sherlock’s things later. There were other things to be arranged, after all. Harry would need to be informed for one, and she would no doubt need help with the legalities. As he turns to leave, the mirror over the mantle catches his eye and he pauses, frowning. His gaze roams over the flecks of blood clinging to the surface, only a few having been large enough to drip down, streaking the surface. Other than the blood, there seems to be nothing out of the ordinary in the reflection, but….  
He shakes his head, turning for the door and leaving the Detective Inspector and his team to their tasks. He has work to do.  
But for just a moment, he could have sworn he saw a flash of orange and blue light, though for the life of him he couldn’t think of where it would have come from.

 

Sherlock teaches John how to move in this new place. He teaches him how to travel, how to navigate the shadows beyond the realm of the living, how to slip between the cracks and end up somewhere else entirely.  
But more importantly, Sherlock teaches John how to see.  
Under his guidance, John learns how to spot the cracks between places, the areas that aren’t there even while they are, the disjointed seams of the world that he could never have seen in life. Moreover, with only a few nudges from Sherlock, John learns how to use this new knowledge. This new old world is different, and strange, and vague, but mortality is a clouding thing and now that it’s been stripped away John finds himself picking things up more or less instinctively. He has been reduced down to his base parts and amplified, and now that he is more or less figuring out the basics to this place, he is eager to stretch himself, to learn his new limits. He wants to run with Sherlock again.  
Sherlock wants it too, he can tell. He can tell a lot of things about Sherlock now, even if that was one he could have figured out when they were both still alive. They need words less in this place, a shared glance or a simple shift in body language conveying more than whole paragraphs could at this point. There are quick flashes of eyes and smirks between them as they fall into place with each other better than they ever had in life. John grins at his partner, his companion, his friend, and watches the blood fade in and out on Sherlock’s face, glistening and dripping. Sherlock smirks at him through the blood and presses his thumb to John’s shoulder, watching the red blossom outwards across John’s shirt from the bullet wound. John grins wider, shaking sand out of his hair, and Sherlock snorts and holds out his hand.  
John takes it without a second thought, and together they turn and run.


	3. Shadows in the Walls

Their first stop is Baker Street, because although they might not be a part of that world anymore, some things really are eternal and the flat at 221B will always be their home. John pads around the flat, tilting his head and adjusting his sight in the way Sherlock has taught him to see through the cracks his death has left. It is easiest here, where he would probably be able to see through even if his death had not shattered what was left of the barrier here. He and Sherlock are a part of this place now. It is where they always end up returning to, even if it is not vital to them like they are to it.  
John looks over what’s left of his old body on the floor, standing beside Greg Lestrade as he takes notes. Sherlock is examining the blood splatter across the furniture, seemingly fascinated; though what he could possibly be deducing from it John can’t imagine. Turning away, John examines Lestrade instead. The Detective Inspector is looking… a bit not good. Sherlock’s death hit everyone who might have once called the man friend hard, and John knew his own downward spiral had made matters that much worse for everyone. Sighing, he reaches out a hand toward Greg’s face, his fingers hovering over the dark circles beneath his friend’s eyes. Lestrade blinks, the hair on the back of his arms and neck rising, and he glances quickly around the flat before visibly dismissing it and going back to work. John sighs again and steps back, looking instead at Sherlock who has moved on from inspecting the results of John’s suicide and is now staring at his brother in the doorway.  
Sherlock moves forward, slipping from one spot in the room to another without apparently crossing the space in between. He twists around his brother, circling him, watching. He stops again in front of Mycroft, leaning into his brother’s space, eyes catching the light and reflecting blue-white for a moment. Mycroft doesn't notice, still glancing around the flat and shifting his grip on his umbrella uncomfortably. John stays where he is, watching impassively. Finally Sherlock steps back, grimacing as he looks away. John raises an eyebrow at him. Sherlock glances back at his brother one last time before looking back to John and blinking slowly.  
John tilts his head.  
Sherlock lifts his chin and lets the smallest smirk curl the edges of his mouth.  
John’s answering smile bares more teeth than it would have in life.  
Sherlock steps forward beside John, who turns away from the living in their home and lets the pulse wash back in for a moment, before together they step forward and slip behind the mirror.

 

They chase each other across London, discovering new places and routes and creatures in this world, this city between realities. They swap with each other as they run like compass needles spinning endlessly; Sherlock tracking John down, then John hunting Sherlock, until neither can remember what role they’re supposed to be playing and they end up circling each other again, prowling up and down alleys and across rooftops, eyes flashing white-orange-blue as they play. London is theirs now, as much as they were ever London’s, and every night spent panting with adrenaline as they chased the criminal of the week through the streets was only ever a prelude to this, to this first new game while the edges of them blur and shift and spark, but never grate (not anymore).  
John walks through deserts under a rainy grey London sky with a madman at his side and blood dripping down his face and arm, and feels like a patrolling wolf inspecting new won territory. Sherlock pads beside him, the only one he will ever defer to, but not in charge of him, never that (except that he is, really he is, but it’s okay because John’s in charge of Sherlock too). Sherlock stalks beside him, and smirks through the blood on his face, a challenge, a call, we are here come forward at your own risk, tapping away at that ever necessary phone that has followed him even here and darting glances at John that say perfectly well that he knows the phone isn't the only thing to have carried over.  
John adjusts his coat collar, fingers brushing the fur of a parka for a moment, feeling the familiar weight at his back settle into place (he is an expert at cutting people open and sewing them back together, but more often he simply cuts them down these days, instead), and lets the curve of his spine and the roll of his gait reply for him.  
They sweep past St. Bart’s without sparing it a second glance- there will be time for that later, when John is less likely to shake apart at the seams from the memories and Sherlock is less likely to join him. New Scotland Yard is circled once, twice, but not entered- that, too, will have its time, but not now. Angelou’s they stalk through as though they own, because really they might as well, inspecting for interlopers and checking to be sure it really is theirs. But yes, there’s their table, with the candle on it lit in mourning, and Sherlock nods once in satisfaction before they leave. Next is the Irregular circuit, Sherlock seeking out each and every one of his network and checking them over before moving on to the next while John stands guard at his shoulder, watchful gaze shining orange in the streetlights as he keeps his vigil.  
They have seeped into the fabric of things, lost their mortal containers and bled out over all they once touched. John reaches out a hand and lets a passerby on the street walk through it, feeling the beat and pound of their heart shudder through his fingers. Sherlock watches him from the fire escape of the building across the street, turning away with a dramatic flourish of his coat and slipping from John’s view before stepping out of the shadows from the alley next to him a moment later. John tilts his head, acknowledging him while still staring after the stranger walking down the road, his hand dropping to his side as he rubs his fingertips together. Sherlock slants a sideways glance at him and deliberately, surreptitiously, turns his hand over palm up at his side, watching John’s face from the corner of his eye as the faint sound of jangling metal surrounds them.  
John looks at him, eyes widening for a moment as he glances down at Sherlock’s hand, catching the ghost of handcuffs around his wrist as his hand holds steady in invitation. John stares briefly before he smiles, softly, it’s all fine, and takes his hand. Sherlock grins, and this time it’s all challenge (think you can remember how to coordinate, John?) and he takes off down the street. John gets tugged along after him, the way it’s always been, the way John prefers it, and this time when the handcuffs solidify around their wrists it’s because it’s more fun this way.  
It’s always been more fun for them when there were hurdles for them to take flying leaps over without knowing if there would be solid ground on the other side. So much more exciting when they were breathless and wide-eyed and running on the edge of a knife, one wrong step and the game’s up, but that’s what makes it the game, because what fun would it be if the stakes weren't too high and their chances in the gutter? Sherlock has what might be called an addictive personality, and John’s always been a gambler. They’re a pair of adrenaline junkies forever searching for that next high, that next jackpot to win, that next set of impossible odds to beat because of course they will.  
John huffs a laugh, and Sherlock smiles from the corners of his eyes at him, and together they twist themselves through a length of barbed wire and leap into the Thames just because they can.


End file.
